


kiss a god or two

by halleycomets



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, Unresolved Tension, thats a tag im screaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 03:37:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7960960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halleycomets/pseuds/halleycomets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A subject change was in order if he had any hope of rekindling a conversation. He hadn’t come to feel like a bastard pauper; he had come to pretend he wasn’t one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kiss a god or two

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhh i had writers block on my original projects so i pumped out this nonsense to get the blood flowing. it's canon era and it's pretty and it's short. it's probably extremely anachronistic but there's general winter's ball/satisfied vibes so let me live
> 
> i hate alexander hamilton and love to punish him, long live angelica schuyler and the legendary curve
> 
> i love comments and kudos

The laughter still echoed out into the hall of the Schuyler mansion from the ballroom, tickling Alexander’s ears like a draft as he made his exit. His body was warm with spiced brandy wassail and several minuets, his face flush, tendrils of hair dangling at his cheeks, exerted out of his ribbon. Full uniform made him attractive and stately, but it also made him hot, and heavy on his own feet while he was trying to dance. The ballroom was packed and stifling, and the hallway was cooler, and empty -- aside from the one person he had been trying to dance with most earnestly.

He had made eye contact with Angelica Schuyler several times over the shoulders of other ladies, several of whom were under the impression that he was eyeing their collarbones in an attempt to be sensual. One had even made a fingerly pass at his groin in response, though with enough plausible deniability that he could pretend not to have noticed.  _ Otherwise I would have had to bring her home,  _ he thought to himself, the heels of his boots resonating on the hardwood as he strode up behind Angelica. _ To preserve her honor _ . He cracked a mischievous smile.

“Mr. Hamilton.” She didn’t even turn around.

He stopped and stood stiff, brows raised, hands behind his back. “Miss Schuyler. Is my gait really so distinctive.”

“No,” she said. “You’re the only person invited who I would expect to come and bother me.”

“I do have a reputation for being a bother.”

“Come here, Alexander. Did you dance with Eliza?”

Angelica had been trying to divert his attentions from herself to her sister since their first meeting. It always worked, but never entirely.

“Not this time,” he said, stepping up closer, still behind her. He could smell her. She was wearing something French. “She’s been otherwise occupied.”

He examined the walls of the hall over her shoulder. Rows and rows of paintings -- some landscapes, mostly portraiture -- hung in gilded frames between magnificent caps of crown molding. 

“This one is the most remarkable,” he said of a portrait of an old man with gleaming eyes, leaning into a side bureau on the wall, feeling his cloak snag on its handle and doing nothing about it. 

“He was something of an unremarkable person,” said Angelica. “I don’t even remember how he’s related to me.”

“No Schuyler is unremarkable in my eyes.”

“Why? Because of our wealth?” She glanced at him over her shoulder.

“I…” He withdrew, enough for his cloak to fall from the bureau. “I suppose that was the root of it. I should have thought before I spoke. There’s too much wealth in New York for it to become inherently remarkable.”

She cracked a smile, turning and laughing and looking back up at the relative she apparently held in such little regard. Alexander had to wonder what it was like, having so much family that you could disregard some of them. A noncommittal family tree indicated a surplus of branches. Too many to remember. 

“Who’s the painter?” A subject change was in order if he had any hope of rekindling a conversation. He hadn’t come to feel like a bastard pauper; he had come to pretend he wasn’t one. “Someone talented enough to give noticeable life to someone whose name you had to scrounge -- and aren’t you particularly known for your cleverness?”

“Cleverness has nothing to do with memory, Mr. Hamilton,” she said. “I consider an aptitude for compensating a lost memory to be a form of cleverness.”

“So… Being a good liar.”

He saw her cheeks firm up in a smile from behind.

“The painter is John Trumbull.” She took a step toward the portrait. He followed, ending up closer belly-to-back than he had been before. “He’s fairly young.”

“I know that name,” said Alexander. “He’s a Continental. Or was, as it seems.”

“That’s right. He has the ear of General Washington -- presumably the one not occupied at length by you.”

“Maybe he’ll paint him then, when all this is over.”

“More likely than you think. He’s in London now, studying. A great prospect, apparently.”  She sighed.  “London is the land of great prospects.”

He looked at her shoulder, smooth and brown against her pink gown; he noted the intricate texture of the fabric within its solid color. He flexed a hand, longing to touch both skin and cloth. “Is that where you want to go, Angelica?” 

“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is."

He leaned in, close to her ear. “Loyalist.”

_ “Shh!” _

She swatted at him; he bent and laughed.

“Will you have your portrait done, Alexander Hamilton? ‘When all this is over,’ as you said?”

He was even closer to her then, barely behind her, almost flanking her. His eyes combed her back, a surrogate brush of the fingertips. “I’d hate to have to sit for so long. Vain as I am, I really couldn’t abide the sitting, not when I could have had everyone on Wall Street see me with their eyes just by walking by, without the steep price and leg cramps.”

“Not even for the immortality?”

He looked up at her then, startled, at her face. She looked back at him square for the first time all evening. He blinked. 

He felt her fingers press into his back. 

“A fine argument, Miss Schuyler.” His face grew hot again.

“I predict there will be a great number of portraits of you, in spite of yourself,” she said. Her hand traveled to his side, the meat of it pressing his hip where his sword would hang had he not been in such close quarters, and in the presence of ladies and children. She looked carefully from his eyes to his cheeks and nose, lingering on his mouth.  “I would paint this face.”

“I would sit for you.”

“I would have you stand.” Her fingers on him spread.

“Dance with me, Angelica. Come back in and dance with me.”

She leaned into the meager gap and reached up to touch his cheek. His stomach ached, his hips ached, both drawn forward. He clasped his hands behind his back, so tight that those bones too began to grind. They stood there, stark and improprietous in both proximity and eye contact under the watchful, jaunty eye of the unnamed Schuyler and all his family immortalized in paint and canvas.

“Not this time,” she finally said. “ I’m otherwise occupied.” 

  
She pinched his chin and turned away, leaving him to rock back on his spurs in the wake of her fine, beautiful hem.

**Author's Note:**

> leave me nice things


End file.
